Everything That Has a Beginning Has an End
by NotMarge
Summary: They never saw each other again, no not once. Not until she finally wrote to him. And then they did. An extended look at the Elsa and Massimo's interactions during the last few episodes of Freak Show. Along with a little something extra at the end.
1. Reunion 1952

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

And I do not own a Massimo. Or an Elsa. *Whew*

Everything That Has a Beginning Has An End

Reunion

1952

* * *

She hated it here, she absolutely _hated_ it.

Trapped in this musky tent with these tired, worn out old things.

And these idiots who couldn't do _anything_ at all right.

She would _never_ be famous.

She would _never_ be revered.

She would _never_ be loved.

Not really, not truly.

Not the way she wished.

That had happened only once.

So very long ago.

And then the fool, the great and wonderful fool, had thrown it all away.

For revenge.

For her.

And she owed him.

She would _always_ owe him.

Not one day, not one damn _day_, did she not remember him, think of him, miss him.

And what they had had together.

There was no way under the sun that she _could_ forget.

For she walked every day upon legs. _Wooden_ legs, legs carved by her master craftsman Italian, to remind her.

And she _hated_ them.

And hated him.

And hated herself.

Except she did not at all.

She did not, could not, hate him.

Not truly.

But she did miss him.

All these long years.

But she could not bear his presence knowing that he could no longer love her, care for her, desire her.

And so she had gone on.

Away from him.

Though part of her never really had.

But she had never breathed a word of it at all.

Or made any attempt whatsoever to contact him.

Until now.

And it was all because of Jimmy.

That damn lobster-handed _brat_ had gone and gotten himself into the worse possible bind she had _ever_ witnessed anyone (excluding herself) get themselves worked into.

She didn't know it was possible for a person who wasn't a pinhead to make such idiotic decisions.

Allow themselves to be rused so badly.

And now the fool boy had no hands.

And needed help.

Needed hope.

Needed a carpenter.

And so, her renewed pain swelling within her like a tidal wave of misery and longing, she wrote to him.

To Massimo.

Because Jimmy Darling, her idiot boy, needed new hands.

And Elsa knew a master craftsman.

But he had not come.

Again.

And she would be left to wonder.

Again.

And all would be lost.

Again.

And she was _angry_.

Because he had not come.

And she had wondered.

And there was no hope left at all.

Until she saw him.

Massimo.

Standing in the shadows of the big top entrance.

Cloaked in the gloom, he looked exactly the same as when she had lived her life for him all those long years ago.

And whatever pointless, meaningless, inane drabble she was about to sing, died in her throat.

He had finally come.

She had waited all these years to see him standing there, sitting there, in the audience.

Every song she had sung, she had sung for him.

Even when she didn't know it.

And even when she did. And had denied it.

And now here he was.

And it was just the two of them again.

Alone, such a vast, dusty, dim void separating them.

And she didn't even know if he was real.

She didn't want him to be, not after all this time.

And yet she did.

She saw him.

And wrapped her arms around her thin frame to keep from bursting into a million tiny pieces.

She would _not_ break apart and shatter.

Not in front of _him_.

She _must_ not.

She must _walk_.

Walk on those damn legs he had carved just for her.

And she did.

Without knowing how she kept her balance, her momentum, her direction, her _sanity_, Elsa moved toward him.

Slowly.

She walked toward Massimo Dolcefino.

And saw him clearer in the quiet light.

He was older now, they both were. More careworn, more used up by the world and its awful, miserable dealings and cruelities.

But oh, he was handsome. So very handsome still.

It made her wonder distractedly if he liked her hair.

He had never seen it red before. It had always been blond.

And her body, this drooping bag of flesh and bone.

She had kept it up, as a star must, but age was chasing her all the same.

And he was here now after so long away.

And seeing her.

But she lost all those thoughts and random wonderings a moment later.

Because when he removed his hat in that casual gentlemanly way of his and gazed at her with those deep, dark eyes, her heart swelled with love and shattered with grief all at the same time.

Touch him, touch him.

She wanted to touch him so badly.

Feel the scruff of his precious face with her skin again.

Feel the warmth of his strong body again.

Feel his sure, steady arms around her again.

But she hesitated.

So much time, so much gone. Lost. So much time, never to get back.

And all because of her.

And his love for her.

That consuming love that had caused her physical ecstasy when they had joined together those months so long ago, that same consuming love had driven him to seek vengeance for her.

That love had destroyed them both.

And now he was finally here.

And all she wanted to do was touch him.

Be touched by him.

And so, trembling and aching and yearning and hurting and loving, she reached out.

And threw herself into his arms.

Let her tears flow.

And knew without a doubt that it was the only place she would ever truly belong.

_Massimo_.

* * *

He found the place, just as she said he would.

Old and worn, the flags, the tents, the stands, the carousel. Strings of multi-colored lights.

All set up in an overgrown field.

All waiting, lifeless and still in the harsh, light of day.

Resting, biding their time. Until dusk.

Until showtime.

To spring to life in the magic of night.

Walking through a huge, hideous devil face and mouth with tongue and pointed fangs.

Mysterious and gruesome and darkly appealing.

And Elsa, his Elsa, her touch was on every single bit of it.

It reflected her dark fascinations and desires.

Fraulein Elsa's Cabinet of Curiosities.

How very extraordinary.

The big top awaited, red and white worn cloth wilted under the heat of the sun.

He would find her there.

No doubt practicing for her upcoming musical performance.

He remembered her singing.

Not the best he'd ever heard. Rather brash and coarse even as she hit the right notes and tones.

But he'd loved it all the same.

Because it was hers.

And encouraged the continuation of it.

Because he loved her. Because everyone needed hope, needed a goal, a bright light to reach toward.

And everything, _everything_, could be smoothed, polished.

Like rough wood, shaped and refined.

Until it was just as it should be, could be.

Or so he'd once thought.

He heard her before he saw her.

Yelling, raging at someone for some unforgiveable slight.

Yes, he remembered her fire.

He remembered being seared by it on several occasions.

And he remembered forgiving her time and time again.

And forcing himself to let go.

Because that was what love and acceptance did.

Let go.

And hoping it would help sooth her so that she might learn to forgive. Learn to accept.

Learn to be calm without and within.

Sometimes it worked, sometimes it did not.

And sometimes it had made him want to shout and rage back.

Or put his hands around her throat to shake her and stop her words until she collected herself.

But he never had.

Because that would teach her nothing. Heal her not at all.

And so with patience and care and persistence, he had given her room to change, room to grow.

And she had.

Softer, gentler, more aware of others' as living, breathing souls.

But now, apparently, she had slipped right back to where she had been.

And he felt sorrow he had failed her so in not providing her with the love and care throughout these lost years that she had needed so badly.

Because now she was hard and biting all over again.

And he had failed her.

Nevertheless, he approached.

Slowly. Quietly.

Toward Elsa.

With his worn hat on his aged head.

And his bag and toolbox in his hands, he walked toward her.

Seeing her again after all these many years.

Sixteen long years.

And she was beautiful still.

Older, more tired and frustrated by the world.

But still beautiful.

Red curls now, not blond.

Slender figure adorned stylishly.

Walking on the legs he had given her.

She was almost to the microphone when she saw him.

And stopped as if frozen, unable to move.

Wrapping her arms around herself as if holding herself together.

Much in the same manner as she had that night when he, out of desperate loneliness and unrelenting yearning, had gone to the apartment in which she resided.

Just to see her again. Smell her aromatic perfume. Hear her voice, that voice that so gave her away.

He had not meant to touch her, to take her in his arms and kiss her. He had not meant to make love to her.

He had only wanted to see her, hear her voice.

Or so he had told himself at the time he had knocked on her door.

And then he had let go of everything holding him back.

And in that moment and for the few free months afterward, he could not have imagined doing anything else.

But now, he did not know how to feel, what to feel.

Because he could not feel.

He did not know what to do.

Because there was nothing he could do.

But wait for her to come to him.

And so he did.

It did not take long.

She moved toward him almost immediately. Slowly, as if in a trance.

Her face a tumult of mixed emotions.

He almost smiled then.

She had never been adept at keeping her feelings hidden within, no matter what she thought to the contrary.

The spotlight illuminating the otherwise darkened space cast her in an unearthly glow.

And he saw her.

Self-consciously playing with her hair, smoothing her dress.

Her thoughts seemed so loud that they thundered in the silence, garbled and swirling and confused.

He set down his baggage and, from years of gentlemanly practice and habit, removed his hat.

And looked back up to see her almost to him.

She seemed to be reigning herself in just a bit, attempting to smile. But still looking as though she might break apart yet.

He whispered her name, a release of breath and trapped years of desolate emotional isolation.

And that seemed to break her reserve.

For she reached out, caught herself back.

And finally threw herself into his arms that seemed to reflexively come up around her.

To hold her tight.

If only for a brief moment in time.

Because that, now, was all that remained for them.

Just now.

_Cara mia. _

* * *

**Hello!**

**Well, had to finish the story then, didn't I?**

**Another coupla chapters I think. But not too much. **

**Because I can only hold so much sadness and woe for their story within me. **

**And then, I too must let go. :)**

**Everybody appreciates feedback. Leave a review if you like. **


	2. Elsa's Dark Pinocchio

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

And I do not own a Massimo. Or an Elsa. *Whew*

Everything That Has a Beginning Has an End

**(This chapter rated M for gore, just to be safe)**

Elsa's Dark Pinocchio

* * *

"I've got no strings

To hold me down

To make me fret

Or make me frown

I had strings

But now I'm free

There are no strings on me."

-Disney's Pinocchio

* * *

Fraulein Elsa Mars was trying not to shatter.

Because Massimo, her Italian carpenter, was returned to her.

And the gulf between them was too wide, too deep, too vast to cross.

And it was destroying her.

When she had finally summoned the inner strength to release him from her relieved, desperate grip, she had drawn back and looked into his deep, dark eyes.

She had seen gentility.

Proper decorum.

And nothing else at all.

His love for her, his all-consuming love, was gone.

Vaporized, bled away.

Gone.

Just as he had said it was in that hideous letter so many years ago.

He, a man, simply looked upon her, a woman.

And nothing more.

She had cast her gaze down and away, refusing to accept the truth emanating from his core.

Asked him if he wished to accompany her to her tent.

For refreshment.

Or a bite to eat.

Converse, pass the time.

Anything at all.

And he, having not seen her in sixteen long, dry years, had politely refused her.

_Refused_.

And simply requested a quiet tent in which to slumber after his long journey.

A vision had arisen behind her eyes.

Her reaching out, slapping his lined face.

Screaming into that passive visage to _see me! I am here! You are here! See me! Love me!_

Then taking his precious, gentle face in her hands and kissing his lips.

Lovingly. Passionately.

Willing him to wake from his living dead torpor.

And finally, _finally_, being cherished once again.

And happy.

And truly, _truly_ loved.

But she had not.

She had wrenched her emotions into a stranglehold and curtly nodded.

Guided him to an empty tent.

And left him alone there.

Escaping to her own tent, she'd released her emotions in a flurry of rage and heartbreak that no one, ever, would see.

No one.

And the one person to whom she might have allowed to see her grief she could not.

For she had killed that person.

Thrown a knife right into her eye.

Staged a ridiculous suicide.

And now wished she could take it all back.

Because then she may not have felt so all alone.

But now she was here.

In the barn where her best friend's miserable, hurting, handless son lay helpless and waiting.

And she, Elsa Mars, had brought him a miracle.

A master craftsman.

The main attraction.

And a flask of strong whiskey.

The opening act.

Which she now shoved in the boy's mouth, quite against his will.

She had no soul just then for pleasantries, to listen to the pitiful bag of bones argue and whine.

It was all she could do just to hold herself together as it was without expending energy to coddle him.

Because behind her approached her Italian, long gone these many years and now returned.

Returned and removed.

She remembered doing this, this reaching out, so long ago in Munich.

Her hope, her love, her personal feeling of validation and self-fulfillment.

It made her sick now, made her swell with longing and regret.

And so the experience was not quite the same.

But she did catch a whiff of nostalgia as Massimo introduced himself to her lobster boy, those surreshing dulcet tones resonating straight to her bone marrow as they always had done.

And she found herself captivated again.

Loving him again.

Believing in him again.

Just a little.

Stowing his syringe away, daring to look him in the eye, if only for a moment.

And listening to him weave his dream for the crippled man-child in the bed.

Remembering what it was like to have true hope, true possibility, true purpose.

Feeling Massimo touch her arm, ever so lightly, as he moved around the dimly lit space.

And promising to herself that she would not ask for, hope for, more.

Watching him take measurements. Her showing the supine creature in the bed her secret wooden legs.

And insisting, no, _demanding_ that the sorry, self-pitying child see Massimo, revere him for the savior he truly was.

It was almost against her will.

But they were there, those words and actions, out into the air.

It was the most honest she had been with herself, and anyone, since her impromptu confession to Ethel Darling.

And it hurt.

It hurt so badly.

And he, the beautiful bastard, speaking to her in Italian, rhythmic, divine language she had once so loved to hear flow silken from his lips.

Now cut her to shreds as he murmured.

And just as before, she clung to every word, every syllable, every nuance of it.

She could barely understand him now, it had been so very long.

But she did understand.

And she repeated his words, slowly, back to him.

And listened to her soul yearn like violin strings in the aching melancholy of the lost ever after.

She did not think she could not bear it without cracking apart and bleeding out from within.

Deep down.

That heart rending nostalgia.

In Greek it literally meant 'pain from an old wound'.

And so it was.

Those wounds that had never quite healed.

Not for her.

Grievous, soul-scarring wounds.

Knowing the truth.

That was bad enough.

Hearing Massimo's story all over again, from his very own lips instead of words and lines on paper, was worse.

Much worse.

And it threatened to tear her apart.

She had told him, moments before, that he had been a fool.

And he had taken the slight from her, with a quiet, knowing smile as he always had.

A fool, she had said.

And, yes, he had been.

But so had she.

It was she who had ignored his growing darkness, refused to see it.

She who had wallowed in her grief so completely, sloshing its filth out onto his soul.

Staining it, blackening it, poisoning it.

Until he threw away everything they might create together.

Just to raze to the ground those who took her legs.

She trembled and quaked within herself as he told the story.

She couldn't help it.

She added her own parts, such as they were. Even managing wistful smiles and passing glances of fond memories.

Before the savagery and cruelty of their ruin took hold of her again and she could go no further.

And Massimo continued the reminder of his story on, without her.

Because she was weak, had been weak.

And he had been strong, so strong.

Once.

Until the monster-in-chief, as the whimsical bastard termed it, had broken his strength.

And his humanity.

The tortures he had faced, the miseries he had endured.

Hers, as bad as it had been, had lasted mere minutes.

His had lasted _months_.

Because of her.

Cruelties and subjections she could never imagine.

But had haunted her nightmares and waking visions ever since she had learned of them.

So casually, so lightly, so removed and _unaffectedly_, Massimo told the story.

Of how the man had crushed, burned, and annihilated his humanity.

His love. His joy.

His soul.

All because of her.

He told it as if none of it mattered any longer.

And maybe to him it did not.

Which was perhaps the greatest torment to her of all.

And she, the cause of all his pain, sat witness to his demise.

Because she owed him that.

In her love. In her loyalty.

She owed him the pain it caused her to hear it all spoken aloud from his very own lips.

And know it was her fault.

When he said she did not write him back after reading that horrid, terrible letter he had penned, his dark, deep eyes locked with hers.

And she saw no judgment.

And no hate.

And no love.

And she could not stop her tears.

And Jimmy Darling, the handless fool, still thought that true love and romance would overcome all, trump all, darkness and evil.

Would, could win.

Which was a lie.

And one day, if he continued on this mortal coil long enough, he would come to recognize that lie for what it truly was.

A fool's errand.

A sham.

A waste.

A carnival ruse.

Because if she and Massimo could not live on together, there was no hope for her in all this world at all.

Not truly.

And the greatest savagery would be that she would endure on.

With that knowledge.

Alone.

Without Massimo.

It seemed near the end of his story that he almost began to feel.

Something.

But then buried it down again.

With an empty smile.

And a flippant, shallow colloquialism.

Before he gathered his instruments.

And fairly fled the darkened barn.

Leaving Elsa with her refreshed grief.

And a handless baby in a bed.

* * *

Massimo

He told her he could not love.

Could not hope.

Could not grieve.

And that was true.

But there was one thing that he could do.

He could hate.

And keep it all inside.

The waking hours for Massimo Dolcefino were manageable for the most part.

He busied himself with mechanical tasks.

Mechanical interactions.

Mechanical existence.

Then, when the night closed in and his eyelids drooped, he returned.

To those darkened rooms.

To the locked cells.

To the pain and anguish and torture.

Of Dr. Hans Groper.

A fool, he had been a fool.

Elsa was correct on that observation.

He had dispatched them all, one by one.

And then been shot, caught, entrapped.

By a monster.

He had told Elsa the truth.

His body had survived.

But only in the most basic sense.

The creature in human guise had done everything he could to bring his helpless victim to the brink of death.

And then cruelly torn the release of death away from him.

And let him live.

Just to begin the process all over again.

Massimo had yearned for death, prayed for it.

Reached out to it with open, trembling, blood-spattered arms.

But the Angel of Death had never arrived to visit upon him her kiss of peace.

And so he had lived on.

Until he had been set free from those cells.

Where he had left his humanity, his heart.

His soul.

And now in the waking hours, with practice and determination, he could survive.

Except around her.

Elsa.

Once the love of his life, the rare and beautiful bird. Crippled yet healing and whole.

Within and without.

Once he had lived for her.

And now, her flowery light perfume scent mingled with the stench of ozone as Groper seared with electric fire his most tender of fleshly parts.

The sound of her voice partially drowned out by the screaming of the tortured man still echoing within his own head.

As his body endured torture after torture after hideous torture.

The touch of her was the touch of the electrodes, the burning iron, the blood stinging his eyes as he suffered time and time again at the hands of the one who found him a mere plaything.

To be discarded away in darkness and shivering, biting cold for days at a time.

To lay in his own filth and bile and squalor.

With no reprieve or liberation at all.

To press his lips to her skin, as she so obviously wished for him to do, would be to taste death.

His death, flaunted to him so many times by Dr. Groper. And then taken away only to present again at a later time when he silently pleaded for it so.

The sight of her face overlapped with the grim, inhumane visage of a man staring down at a science experiment of less value than a insect.

And those cold, cold, dead eyes filled with dark fascination at his latest consideration of the brutalized thing before him.

As he walked away from the bleeding, filthy, wretched pile of man flesh collapsed, twitching and writhing upon a cold, concrete floor.

The mere sight of Elsa, so changed and yet so very the same, reminded him of his failure. Shoved it in his face as a punished dog to a pile of its own stinking refuse.

Her in the light and love of life.

What he could have had if not for his commitment to her, his all-consuming vengeance.

In the name of the lady Elsa.

And so, even as he had once loved her, he now hated her.

So deeply that he could actually feel nothing at all.

Which was a saving grace of sorts, really.

For otherwise, he might have soundlessly, mindlessly strangled the very life from her body.

At any given moment.

In the darkest crevices of night, he still awoke from slumber, sweating, fighting, gasping for air.

From vivid recollections of his time as Hans Groper's captive specimen.

And when those instances occurred, he was not himself.

And those were the times when he was most dangerous.

And for all those reasons, that was why Massimo Dolcefino felt he had no humanity left in him.

And chose remain there, out of reach from her.

Because whatever else he was in this world, he was not intentionally cruel.

And would not intentionally hurt her.

Though he did make her weep with his tale relayed to the boy in the bed.

Made her eyes and entire soul within open and vulenerable to his words, to his meaning.

To his revelations.

Because she must understand.

As much as he could allow.

And then when the boy was seen to and his story was told and his amore was heartbroken and distraught yet again, he fled.

Because though he was without humanity, he was not without gentility.

And he could no longer face her yearning, her tears, her bleeding existence.

And he could not comfort her.

Because he was not a man.

Any longer.

He was only Massimo.

A simple carpenter.

With a soul and heart of wood.

And that was not enough.

* * *

**Long chapter for me, yeah. But I am _not_ going through _that_ again. **

***Proffers boatloads of Kleenex***

**Wow, I didn't really anticipate how dark that would be until I wrote it. Sheesh. **

**But I can't apologize. I'm only telling their truth, in the end.**

**So basically for Massimo, aversion therapy here. Of the most gruesome form. Until there are no strings of humanity holding him together. Or so he thinks. :/**

**It looks like there's no way out for our tragic pair, I guess. **

**But I'm known for happy story endings (save for the previous one) so you'll just have to decide if you trust me.**

**Well, do you?**

**Thanks to brigid1318, 8Girls8Boys, sweet Grace, GG, and jessicalangefan for holding my hand and coming into the darkness with me. We'll find the light at the end I'm sure. :)**


	3. Reunion 1960

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

I do not own a Massimo. Or an Elsa.

Everything That Has a Beginning Has an End

Reunion

1960

* * *

Massimo.

Massimo Dolcefino was coming to see her.

Her.

And she didn't want him to.

And she did.

She wanted him to see her successful, at the top of her game.

In Hollywood.

In her big, impressive estate.

With a pool.

And indoor plumbing.

She wanted him to see her.

Her, successful.

Without _him_.

She styled her hair and applied her makeup perfectly.

Applied her most sensual perfume.

And draped herself in a lovely, flowing, pale blue and pink garment to accentuate her svelte figure, her casually extravagant lifestyle.

She donned sunglasses to cast her most unattainable, mysterious air about their engagement.

She wanted to see him.

Him, to see her.

To see that she was just fine without him.

That she didn't need him.

She wanted him to want her.

Be impressed with all she'd accomplished.

She wanted to _win_ this time.

Over her emotions, over him and his constant haunting of her existence.

And so she waited for him, for their luncheon.

She waited.

Pretended not to pace the floors.

And pretended _not _to wait.

She pretended not to watch out the window as the cab dropped him off.

She pretended her heart was not pounding in her throat, that her stomach was not roiling and churning.

That she was not as giddy and nervous as a schoolgirl.

She pretended she was fine.

And that was a lie.

A complete and utter lie.

That she clung to as absolute fact.

She did not move, not until he was by the pool.

Quiet and still, in that unaffected way he had.

He wore a dark suit and hat, even now, even in the California sun.

And she smiled as she approached, charming and bright.

For she was the loveliest, most dazzling woman in all the world.

And she wanted him to see it.

See her.

When he turned and removed his hat in that perfect fashion of his, her heart fluttered all the more.

They exchanged a light kiss, just a peck.

And then separated, stiffly, uncomfortably.

And she felt the decorum, the formality standing guard between them.

And it was awful, it was terrible.

She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to contain her desire and immediate frustration for this man on whom her soul had fixated for what seemed like her entire life.

Pretending, they were pretending this was normal.

That there was nothing between them.

That she had not loved him, missed him, yearned for him all these long, unendurable years.

Pretending she was in absolute, calm, casual control.

Pretending, pretending.

What a great, loathsome, lying game.

So she let him pull out the chair for her.

She let him sit down across from her.

Admired the sun across his handsome face, so lined, so worn, so tired.

And she smiled.

And they talked.

He told her of his work.

Nevada.

The villages.

The destruction.

And she refused to care.

Care about what building those doomed structures with his very own skilled hands felt like.

Things that had taken months no doubt to build.

And seconds to destroy.

And what that must do to a master craftsman, skilled creator such as he.

She pretended not to hang on every word he spoke in those dulcet Italian tones.

She pretended that her entire mind and heart and soul did not call out to him and ache to touch him.

She pretended they were just old acquaintances, old friends.

She pretended.

And it was a lie.

And then, and then, he turned away from his own trials and tribulations.

And to her.

To speak of all she had achieved. All she had attained.

All she had become.

His eyes showed pride for her and her accomplishments.

And though he meant it to validate and encourage her, all it did was hurt her.

Because once again, as so many times before, he was putting her needs, her desires, before himself.

He believed in her.

After all this time, after all she had done to push him away, to hurt him, to vex him, he still believed in her.

And she could not keep up the pretense.

Not to him. Not to her Italian carpenter.

Not to Massimo.

So she confessed, she admitted her unhappiness, her miseries, her discontents.

And it sounded so inane, so flippant, so childish to her ears.

But the pain inside her was real, so very real.

And he listened, the beautiful bastard, _listened_.

Really listened.

With his eyes, with his ears, with his _soul._

And it hurt her so very much.

She told him some.

Her boredom, her loneliness, her solitude.

She tried to stay light and offhand.

She tried to smile.

But inside, everything was screaming.

And only he, Massimo Dolcefino, could quiet it.

She didn't tell him about her sham of a marriage.

Oh, she told him about the infidelities. On both sides.

And gave herself a touch of credit for mentioning her own.

But she did not tell him that she, in pursuit of fame and love, had become a dominatrix whore all over again.

That she could not tell.

Because she had promised herself, back all those years ago, that she wouldn't reduce to that anymore.

That she didn't _have _to.

Because she had Massimo's love.

And with that, she could be real and cherished and loved.

That in the sweet irony that Massimo had, so long ago, tossed out as the tragedy of their lives, she had become her own Pinocchio.

Hollow and empty and inhuman.

And hurting.

Hurting for the acceptance and love and comfort of the only man she had ever truly known.

The man that now finally, _finally_, reached out to her.

With encouragement.

And acceptance.

And caring.

And love.

_Finally _love.

The love she had lost so many years ago.

The love she had yearned for.

_Elsa, ti amo._

Those words, those words in that soft, surreshing rumble.

Those words she had waited so long to hear once more.

And she, almost against her will, found herself reaching out, gripping that love in a stranglehold of desperation and scrabbling hope.

Pleading with him, begging him to take her away.

Away from this place of bright lights and creature comforts.

Away to a simpler, quieter, more honest land.

Italy.

The land of his birth.

Where they could live out their days together in some tucked away apartment.

Along the streets of ancient history and undying love and romance.

She spoke her longing dreams.

And he smiled, her Massimo smiled, his dark eyes warm and deep once again.

And then with as much gentleness as he could afford, crushed those dreams of hers to glittering dust.

Because, now, after all this time, when his heart and mind might be healed enough to once again be her companion and the light she needed so badly, his body was dying.

In earnest, according to him.

A month.

Too long to watch him wither and die.

Not long enough to enjoy watching him live.

And her heart cracked apart and her hope disintegrated into dust.

And her tears fell.

_You cruel beautiful bastard. Why did you come just to tell me this?!_

But it was obvious, he had already said.

To say goodbye.

And he would leave. He would away and die.

And she, Elsa Mars, would be left alone.

To carry on.

Forever, it seemed, in a land without hope.

Without hope, without joy, without magic.

Without Massimo.

* * *

He saw the grandeur. He saw the fame. He saw the fortune.

Massimo Dolcefino saw her.

A lovely, talented, sought after lady.

Who did not have happiness. Or hope.

Or real true love.

Because of him.

She had once been bright, full of life.

Come back from a land of abject darkness and despair.

And he had known she would go far.

He had known her indomitable spirit, her determination would take her there.

He just didn't know it would cost her so much.

For now she was hollowed out, save for her yearning, her bitterness, her regret.

And he knew it was in part because of him.

His failure to supply her with the love she needed to truly live and breathe.

And it saddened him.

From the moment he contacted her, he knew she would be hurt in the end.

But he could not die, he could not pass on, without seeing her one last time.

Listening to her, caring for her.

And he knew that before it was over, he would confess his love to her one final time.

And then he would make her cry.

But first he had to patiently wait through her shallow speech, her attempts at casual conversation.

Because it was her armor, her protection, her safety.

When it was so painfully obvious she wanted more.

More that he could not give.

For their time, their chance, was past.

He told her of his work, building beautiful villages with his own hands.

Only to watch them be destroyed.

By men who dreamt of fire from heaven and hell below.

He did it, that soulless work, until he could bear it no more.

And walked away.

Only to find months and years later, that he had damned himself.

Sickness, illness creeping itself down into his lungs.

Poison that had sunk itself into his very marrow.

And stolen what little life there remained.

Just as he was starting to suspect he might have time to turn back from wood to human.

And now, it was all gone.

And Elsa, his Elsa, with all her fame and glory and prestige and garnered applause, was truly alone and disheartened in the world.

She, who needed so much from within and could not seek it out.

She who had once laughed and danced in his arms.

She, who had joined her body with his and transported him to planes of pleasure and completion he had only ever felt with her.

She whom he had loved so deeply it had cost him nearly everything.

She was Elsa Mars.

And she was lost.

Floundering.

Wandering.

Alone.

And he who, once upon a time, could fix and make whole those who had lost parts of themselves, found he still had nothing that he could offer to her so that she may be whole and well.

He tried, he truly did.

He spoke to her of her accomplishments, his pride for her, how he had always believed in her and how she would succeed.

But it was not enough.

Not for her.

And not for him.

Because he was cursed.

And dying.

She wanted to go to Italy. Abandon all she had built here in her own name.

Live out their days in land of his birth. In happiness and love and contentment.

And when she spoke of it, her face glowed and the years fell away from her eyes.

She seemed youthful and hopeful and giddy.

He selfishly allowed himself a moment, just a precious moment or two, to enjoy her dream, her joy, her excitement.

Before the cold, hard weight of reality came crashing in on his sickened body.

And he forced himself to tell her of his truth.

And watch darkness envelope her too.

And wondered why the world that could hold so much joy and wonder could also hold so much bleakness and cruelty.

_Ti amo, Elsa. Perdoname, mi amore._

* * *

**Okay, I know, I know. It's just a misery here. **

**But come back for the last chapter and I'll make it better, okay? **

'**Cause come on, people, it can't rain all the time, right? (The Crow)**

**Thanks to brigid1318, YellowBrickQueen, Erase Him in the White Silk, GG, and my mystery guest for sticking it out here. Not easy I know but you're all wonderfully tough for giving it a go. :)**


	4. Absolution

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

I do not own a Massimo. Or an Elsa

Everything That Has a Beginning Has an End

Absolution

* * *

She felt almost a sense of relief when she saw him.

She'd asked for him, summoned him.

With her song, her performance.

With her decision to die.

And now he was here.

Along with all his other denizens of eternal damnation.

And he, only he could grant her peace.

Peace away from the misery of her unbearable existence on this plane.

That peace would come at a terrible, eternal cost.

Which she, in her desperation, would grimly pay.

Just to escape this agonizing mortal coil.

And so she welcomed him.

Edward Mordrake.

And he, the gracious, gentlemanly ghoul granted her request.

* * *

He lay in the bed of the hospital, weakened, helpless.

He was dying, he knew.

After all this time, after all he'd endured.

He was dying, as all living things are fated to do.

And he was ready.

As ready as he could be.

He had always tried to do what was right.

He had lived his life in the best way he could.

In the end he didn't know if it had been enough.

But he had tried.

His sins had been few and far between.

For he had committed himself to acting with a pure, clear heart and conscience.

His only sin, he believed, had been loving her too much.

And it had cost him.

Dearly.

And her.

And he could not take it back.

And so he had prayed, after a fashion, for peace.

For her.

For himself.

The last thing Massimo Dolcefino did as his eyes slipped closed in the embrace of death was pray.

And then the simple carpenter passed on.

* * *

She found herself alone then in the darkness.

At Fraulein Elsa Mars' Cabinet of Curiosities.

Past the carefully painted banners of her precious monsters.

Those she had treated so badly in her selfish ambitions.

Through the hideous face meant to chill the marrow and arouse the dark fascinations of those who entered..

Into the big top, more brightly lit and pristinely glowing than she had seen it in decades.

Or maybe ever.

And then she saw them.

The roustabouts, the workers, setting chairs, preparing for the performance.

And her.

Beautiful, tiny, ethereal, dead her.

Ma Petite.

_But . . . it cannot be. You are dead, my precious one. So sorrowfully dead._

But she wasn't.

She was alive.

And smiling.

And welcoming.

And stunned Elsa picked the doll-like beauty up, cradled her gently.

And felt the first sensation of renewed happiness beat within her.

Legless Suzi was there, walking on her hands, as confidently and easily as Elsa had not seen her do in the final years of the freak show.

She would venture to guess that there was no aching, lingering pain in those strong shoulder joints and muscles.

And though she did not exactly smile, all the timid fear and uncertainty seemed to be gone from her as it never had in real life.

As though she finally felt safe.

Paul the Painted Seal and his Lizard Girl Penny traipsed by her then, aglow with martial happiness and bliss.

More carefree than she had ever seen them in real life.

Ima Wiggles, the beautiful fat lady. Toulouse the tiny Frenchman. And Amazon Eve, beautiful and delicate and strong.

Even Meep, somewhere wandering in the background, meeping happily away in his little blue feathery suit and hat.

They all were there.

Working to prepare for the upcoming show.

_Real _happiness and contentment upon their faces.

And Elsa Mars felt awe and wonder and delight blossoming within her. Spreading out to every cell, every fiber of her being.

And then she saw her.

Her best friend.

Her constant, her strength here at the Freak Show.

The one she had murdered in cold blood, out of anger and fearful self preservation.

And regretted ever since.

Ethel Darling, the Bearded Lady.

Relaxed. Smiling. Confident.

Alive.

Directing the performers.

Preparing for the show.

_Alive._

She would drop Ma Petite if she didn't set her down now.

And so she did, carefully, with love and gentleness.

And approached the one person she had missed and regretted hurting more than anyone else.

With tears in her eyes and hope thrumming in her heart.

She threw out the first of many questions.

And was absolved of all she had done. All the horrors she had committed.

Everything.

And, tears slipping down her face and even more questions in her heart, she felt a surge of gratitude and appreciation.

For it was over.

All her life of misery and woe.

Mistakes and misgivings and sins.

She was free.

Absolved.

She was home.

And she could start anew.

She could be what she had always set out to be.

A good person.

A performer.

A light.

She did not deserve it. She had not earned it.

But she was going to take it.

And do it right this time.

When Ethel began her grand opening spiel, Elsa realized she was missing someone she dearly wished to see.

Jimmy, her precious lobster boy.

He was not here.

And she wondered at him.

And decided it was not his time.

And wished him well.

When she did see him, she would hug him and kiss his handsome face.

And welcome him home.

But for now, there was a performance to be given.

And she, she was going to sing as she had never sung before.

It would be beautiful, transcendent.

And full of joy and hope and gratitude.

As she approached the microphone, bathed in lights and applause, she saw them.

A full house, just as Ethel Darling had said.

They were standing and applauding for her.

Fraulein Elsa Mars.

And she felt the thrill of excitement and joy and exhilaration.

Because they truly loved her.

Her beautiful precious freak family.

And the audience _wanted_ to hear her.

The music was perfect and so would finally be her voice.

She opened her mouth and . . .

Saw him.

In the crowd.

End of the middle row. On the left.

Smiling, warm and bright.

He had finally come, after all these years of waiting and wondering and yearning within her secret self.

He was here.

Massimo.

Healthy and well and happy.

And so she sang.

She sang for him.

She sang _to_ him.

She sang.

* * *

She was beautiful up there on stage.

Beautiful and full of wonder.

And when their eyes met, he saw a jolt of recognition and joy flash through her eyes.

And all the troubles and tribulations of the past melted away.

And all was just as it should be now.

She kept her eyes trained on him and he smiled wider, knowing a good performer engages _all _the audience.

But unable to contain his own welling of joy and love and happiness at her unbridled delight.

For he felt the same.

All the pain in his lungs and body was gone.

The dark memories but a passing unimportance.

He was whole and well.

As was she.

The legs beneath the powder blue fabric she wore were still wooden.

He knew it somehow.

For how could they have come together any other way.

But he also knew now that they would never hurt her. Never ache her stumps. Never blister. Never chafe.

He knew that they, both he and she, were free now.

And absolved.

Forever.

If he had looked away from her, his singing, happy angel, he would have noticed many of those in the crowd carried upon their bodies, wooden appendages.

He would have seen the appreciation of him on their faces.

Would have seen their smiling nods, mouthed _thank you_s.

The gratitude for a gentle master craftsman who would only called himself a simple carpenter.

And perhaps another time, he would.

But for now, it was all her.

And him.

Together.

Finally free and happy.

* * *

When the performance was over, she found herself enveloped in his strong arms, at home in his passionate, tender kiss.

Heedless of everyone and everything around them.

And when they broke apart for air, he gently wiped away her tears, asking why she wept.

And she told him it was because she was overwhelmed with a joy and gratitude and freedom she did not deserve.

And he told her it was okay, to enjoy it, appreciate it.

And make it count.

_Let us away, cara mia, _he said, _just for a little while. _

And with an arm around her, holding his beloved close and cherished, they turned toward the exit.

Ethel called out to them the time of their next show.

And like a teenager on a date, Massimo smiled reassuringly and promised to have her back well within the schedule.

They stepped out of the big top . . .

And Elsa blinked into the bright, warm sunlight of their small, clean, welcoming apartment.

His woodworking tools were there.

The narrow bed with its handmade quilt lay resting upon it.

A small kitchen filled with the aroma of some, simple, sumptuous Italian fare.

And a balcony.

With a lovely, quiet vista of the Appia Way.

_May we?_ She requested, almost shyly.

He smiled, as lovingly and happily as she had ever seen him.

_Of course, cara mia._

And danced her out onto it.

* * *

**There. Did I fix all the anguish that they (and I) have caused you? **

**I surely hope so. **

**Okay, some people have speculated that Elsa is in her own version of Hell at the end. When she actually opens her mouth to sing, nothing comes out or they boo or something. **

**I disagree. I believe it is her version of Heaven. And here's why. Ma Petite and Meep are there. And they, strange as they (Meep) are, they are innocent souls who have committed no sin. And no version of the God I believe in (not even the bizarre AHS one) would send them anywhere but eternal peace and contentment.**

**You are, of course, welcome to have your own opinion. :)**

**And thank you so much for reviewing, brigid1318, GG, and jessicalangefan. It means so much to me that you would stay so constant and encouraging throughout these heart rending chapters. **

**Thank you to the silent readers as well. You are very much appreciated as always. **

**Now, everyone, go be happy and well and do some good out there, yeah? You don't have to save the world or anything. Just be a light in your little corner.**

**After all, that's what we're here for. :)**


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